


if i called would you pick it up?

by jamesstruttingpotter



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: F/M, a criminal lack of sex for a fwb AU sorry, diplomacy AU feat. my paltry knowledge of international relations law, fwb AU too because i love ignoring real world consequences of workplace ethics violations
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29933841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesstruttingpotter/pseuds/jamesstruttingpotter
Summary: Something about him always gets right under her skin, from the imperious look he routinely levels at her to the way his shoulders tighten under his suit whenever she forces him to cede a point to her. Sometimes, every movement of his snags her gaze: the way his fingers wrap around his pens, the ticking in his jaw when he’s waiting for her to finish her end of the argument, the shape of his mouth when they snarl at each other—Katara feels her cheeks start to prickle with heat. She hastily tunes back into the current conversation.
Relationships: Katara/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 72





	1. i.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to break this up into smaller chapters rather than posting the whole thing in one go! I'm hoping this makes reading all 10K+ words of it more manageable.
> 
> I've got a lot of chapters done already, so updates will (hopefully) be quick.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Katara’s not sure how exactly she got here.

“If you think there’s even the _slightest chance_ we accept those terms, you’re living on a different plane of reality,” she snaps. “The Southern Water Tribe has a vested interest in those seas, and our ancestral claims—”

“Were rescinded in the fishing treaties thirty years ago,” says Zuko, equally terse. He’s got a familiar irate look splashed across his face, the one that strongly suggests to anyone looking that she’s an idiot with whom he’s wasting his time. It never fails to send waves of loathing coursing through her veins.

Okay, so she does know how she got here. It’s that look.

“Those treaties were specifically limited to fishing activity, not more general territorial claims,” she replies hotly. “We included explicit provisions that left out any mention of territory switching hands.”

Aang, who is supposedly moderating this civil discussion, clears his throat. “Do you guys ever go easy on each other?” he asks, mild.

“No,” says Zuko. His hands are spread wide on the table before them. His fingers nearly brush the corner of her notepad. 

Her head’s beginning to hurt in a way that’s become incredibly familiar over the past few years. Back when she’d first started in Republic City, she’d been filled with both pride and optimism. She’d been determined to advocate fiercely for her people as their new junior ambassador, and to do right by citizens of other nations as well, especially those without much representation at all.

She’d made it only a few months before getting into her first argument with Zuko, thankfully behind closed doors. It had been over something relatively inconsequential, but it had shaken her confidence. Who was she to say she was a diplomat if she couldn’t even handle disputes peacefully?

Once she’d mustered up the nerve to tell Bato about it, he’d laughed. “That’s the way things have to get done sometimes,” he’d said. “Don’t worry too much about it, Katara. Tui and La know I get into my fair share of shouting matches here.”

Since then, she’d tried harder to both control her temper and feel less bad about losing it when she did. The latter was particularly important: if she’d continued to guilt herself over every argument she had with Zuko, she’d never leave her bed for shame. Something about him always gets right under her skin, from the imperious look he routinely levels at her to the way his shoulders tighten under his suit whenever she forces him to cede a point to her. Sometimes, every movement of his snags her gaze: the way his fingers wrap around his pens, the ticking in his jaw when he’s waiting for her to finish her end of the argument, the shape of his mouth when they snarl at each other—

Katara feels her cheeks start to prickle with heat. She hastily tunes back into the current conversation. 

“Have you ever _tried_ to get along?” Aang is saying, only half-teasing.

“No,” she says. _I didn’t suffer through law school and work my way up through nearly a decade of embassy work just to bow to a deposed tyrant’s son, even if his uncle is the Fire Lord_ , she nearly says, before biting her tongue.

“She doesn’t make it easy,” mutters Zuko, and she immediately regrets her restraint.

“ _Me?_ What about—” Her phone emits a quiet chime. 

Aang looks relieved. “Do you need to get that?” he asks.

She checks the screen. It’s her secretary, Kenah, letting her know the assistant chairman of the World Health committee has a few minutes free but only right now. She sighs. “Yeah, I have to go.” She looks up to level a glare at Zuko. “This isn’t over.”

“No, it’s not,” he replies, grim. She fights the urge to send water from his glass flying into his face.

“We’ll try again once you’re both in better moods,” she hears Aang say as she leaves. The door closes behind her before she can hear Zuko’s response.

Her irritation simmers all throughout her meeting with the assistant chairman, her first pass through her mountain of paperwork, and her quick lunch at the office. She manages to get ahold of herself once she gets home, near ten at night, the familiar motions of preparing and eating her dinner grounding her.

The last dregs of her bad mood finally swirl away once she starts running through her basic waterbending warm-ups. She’d been fortunate enough to secure an apartment with a little backyard attached, and she’d had a fountain installed as soon as she moved in. She still frequents the local bending gym to practice her more complicated or powerful moves, but it’s so convenient having a small practice area in the comfort of her own home. She takes deep breaths now to settle into the familiar push and pull of her bending, water flowing quick and smooth between her palms. 

A knock on her front door shatters her concentration twenty minutes later. She frowns. The doorman would have called her if it were someone he didn't recognize. She heads to the door and swings it open to reveal Zuko, hands in his pockets.

“You’re wrong about the fishing treaties,” she says, before standing aside to let him in.

He looks like he’s about to roll his eyes. Instead, he passes her to take off his shoes. He’s still wearing his suit, clearly fresh from his own office. His tie is slightly loosened. She can see the dip of his collarbones underneath his undone button.

“Got any coffee?” he asks.

She closes and locks the door. “It’s nearly eleven.”

“So?”

She shakes her head. “I’ve got instant stuff.”

He finally turns to face her. There’s a familiar look of intent in his gaze, one that sends a shiver of heat down her spine. “Maybe after,” he says, and leans down to kiss her.

He’s warm, as always. Her fingers are still a little damp; they leave wet spots on his jacket as she pushes it off his shoulders. His mouth is firm and insistent against hers. The smell of his cologne envelopes her, muted and deeper after a full day of settling into his skin.

“We can discuss the treaties later this week,” he says, before pressing a column of kisses down her neck. She tilts her head back to accommodate him. Her fingers make quick work of his shirt buttons.

“I’m booked until Friday,” she says, more breathless than she’d like.

“Okay, so Friday,” he replies, and she ends the discussion by pulling him into her bedroom.


	2. ii.

“You know, if I classify you as a security threat, I’d have to send one of my people up to your apartment with him,” says Suki a couple weeks later. She’s appeared in the doorway of Katara’s office in her usual manner, which is to say silently and abruptly.

“What?” says Katara, still mostly preoccupied with a memo from Ba Sing Se’s ambassador.

“You, a security threat.” Suki raises her eyebrows. “I could hear the yelling from the corridor.”

“He was being difficult.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.”

Katara sighs. The memo is again seeking Southern Water Tribe support on potential economic sanctions against Omashu. It’s a matter made infinitely more complicated by the longstanding friendly relationship between her country and King Bumi. Of course, King Kuei’s ministers know this; she’d wager they’re hoping the relationship will make her potential rebuke all the more harsh should she join their side of the trade dispute. 

She looks up to meet Suki’s gaze. “What are we talking about, again?”

Suki comes to sit in one of the armchairs before her desk. “Whether or not you’re a legitimate threat to Zuko’s health.”

“Are you asking as my friend or as his head of security?”

“Does the answer change depending on what I say?”

Katara pastes on her press conference smile. “Ambassador Zuko is a respected colleague. I value his thoughtful opinions on key international topics and appreciate the opportunities I have to work closely with him to advance our shared goals of peace and cooperation.”

Suki laughs. “Okay, and now as your friend?”

“I’m going to kill him.”

“I  _ did _ hear something to that effect during your argument.”

Katara allows herself to sink deeper into her seat. Her eyes sting from the usual combination of too many hours staring at her computer and too few spent in bed; she rubs a hand over them. “He’s infuriating.”

“You don’t need to tell me. He keeps insisting he’s fine with one bodyguard per shift, as if adopted sons of Fire Lords aren’t prime targets.”

Katara hums. “Well, I won’t go so far as to plan an actual assassination attempt on Zuko, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“No, I know you won’t. I don’t think you’d have the time to find someone else to work off your stress with.”

“Suki!”

“What?” Her friend raises an eyebrow. “You’re a busy woman. You have needs.”

Katara scowls. “We’re being discreet.”

Things weren’t exactly supposed to be this way. The first time they’d slept together was also supposed to be the last. That had been the only reason they’d agreed to do it in the first place.  Instead, once had turned into twice, and twice into three times, and now they were at the point where Suki knew enough to be teasing her about it. Katara, during the precious few moments when she allows herself to assess the situation, mostly wonders if Zuko feels the same sense of impending doom about it.

“Yeah, I know you’re being discreet,” says Suki now. “But I  _ am _ his head of security. I know everything about where he goes and who he meets, even when we’d both prefer I didn’t.” She leans in a little. “And even if you weren’t discreet, would that be so bad?”

“Um, yes. It’d be a huge conflict of interest.”

“Is that what’s holding you back? It’s not uncommon for ambassadors to get involved with each other. Shao and Hyung just got married, remember?”

“And Hyung was more than happy to resign his position,” says Katara. “I would never. Besides, who says Zuko and I even like each other?”

“Uh huh.”

“I mean it. Most days I can barely stand to look at him.” 

“And other days, you take him to bed.”

“Well… it’s like you said. Stress relief.” Katara checks her phone. It’s nearly dinnertime, thank Tui and La. “Have you eaten?”

Suki purses her mouth, but lets her change the subject. “No. You?”

“No. Want to grab some sushi? You can tell me all about my brother’s latest attempt to woo you from across the ocean.”


	3. iii.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon and Bato’s messing around with the books on her shelves again. “Can I help you find something?” she asks, pointed, not taking her eyes off her laptop.

“Nope,” he replies. “Just wanted to check in. Feeling stressed? Want a coffee? Hakoda will have my head if you faint from exhaustion again.”

“That was one time,” she grumbles. “And it wasn’t a faint, I just felt light-headed.”

Her office is part of a connected suite of rooms that also encompasses his office, their secretaries’ bullpens, and a receiving area. Each room is all decked out in teal and navy with white trim, an obvious but soothing nod to their home country. The interconnectedness is often convenient given how often Katara ends up tailing Bato or taking on the less difficult tasks in his workload, but sometimes it facilitates nothing but Bato’s uncle complex. This usually manifests as annoying her until she agrees to take a break. He has an unerring instinct for finding her just when she’s getting to the more complicated parts of her memos.

“Man, I forgot how much smaller the junior ambassador office is,” he muses, picking up another book. “It’s like a broom closet in here.”

She sighs and finally looks up. “Are you going to stay here until I agree to come down to the canteen with you?”

“Is that any way to speak to your favorite uncle?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, what about your boss?”

Katara groans. “Fine. But you’re buying.”

The hallways are empty save a couple busy, tired-looking people scuttling from one meeting room to the next. Heavy golden sunlight pours in through the wide glass windows, sending dust motes spinning through the air. Katara’s stomach grumbles; when she checks the time on her phone, she realizes she’s skipped lunch.

“They’re probably still serving sandwiches,” says Bato with a knowing look.

The canteen is a little busier. The smell of slightly burnt coffee permeates the air. Bato nods at a few people Katara sort of recognizes but doesn’t stop to chat with any of them, instead heading straight for the snack section. Katara finds a limp egg salad sandwich and fills the largest to-go cup with coffee. Bato finds her again as she stirs milk in and snaps the lid on; he pays quickly and they find seats at a square glass-topped table.

“How are things going with the tariffs dispute?” he asks her once she’s taken a few bites of her sandwich. 

She shrugs. “Not much movement. Chun is still insisting that Xiang’s proposal would violate the Charter’s most favored nation provision.”

“Would it?”

“I mean, probably.” Katara takes a sip of her coffee. It scalds her tongue immediately. “But Xiang’s arguing Chun violated MFN first with the steel imports last year,” she continues, popping off the lid to blow at the liquid. “I think we’re right to stay out of it for now.”

“Mm. Think it’ll get to the appellate level?”

“Doubt it, but we can reassess if it does.”

He makes another assenting noise. “I was thinking,” he starts, before abruptly straightening. “Your highness,” he says instead.

Katara swivels in her seat to see Prince Lu Ten approaching, looking deceptively unassuming in a plain grey suit. “Your highness,” she echoes, before he waves a hand.

“Please,” he says. “I much prefer ambassador. Or Lu Ten, even.” He gestures at an empty chair. “May I?”

“Of course,” says Bato. There’s a familiar smoothness to his voice now, a polish that Katara never hears when they’re both at home. 

“Thank you.” The prince seats himself. There’s an easy, confident grace to his movements, one probably fostered by the twenty years he’s spent within these walls.

He’s been ambassador to Republic City since Fire Lord Iroh protected the throne from his brother’s violent usurpation attempt. His appointment at first was considered a show of the Fire Lord’s dedication to peace after a brutal civil war that had had international repercussions. Now, it’s said the prince has settled into the role well enough to be loath to leave, at least until his own ascendency to the throne. His age is betrayed in the fine lines that are beginning to form around his eyes, the silver strands that shoot through his long hair. He doesn’t wear the crown, Katara notes with interest. Anyone looking would think him another mid-tier career diplomat, at least if they ignored the three bodyguards—Suki’s people, she recognizes Rhee—lurking in the middle distance at all times.

“How are you?” says the man now, fixing his gaze on the pair of them.

“Getting by,” says Bato. “I thought the morning’s meeting on food aid was interesting.”

“Yes, I thought so as well. It’ll mean more wading through contracts, but Ono doesn’t seem inclined to drag the process out.”

“Well, paperwork’s why I keep Katara around.”

Prince— _Ambassador_ Lu Ten laughs. “I’m sure you appreciate that characterization of your work,” he says to her, and she grins. “I don’t think my cousin would like it very much either,” he adds, before waving to someone in line at the register. “Do you mind? He’s more knowledgeable on the issue I wanted to speak to you about.”

Katara feels her spine stiffen, even as Bato acquiesces. Consequently, she finds herself looking up into Zuko’s face as he reaches their table. “Sir,” he says to Bato, setting down his own cup of coffee. “Katara,” he adds, quieter, as he slides into the seat next to her. She nods.

“It’s nothing serious,” says the ambassador. “I thought you’d have better insight into the ownership structures of the uninhabited islands near the Pole.”

“Probably,” says Bato, looking interested now. “Is there an issue with them?”

“I wouldn’t call it an issue. Some of our ships are looking to establish a refueling station on one of them and we need to know who to lease the land from.”

Katara leans forward slightly. “Some of the islands are subject to our nation’s ancestral claims, even if they’re uninhabited,” she says. “Others are privately owned, some individually and some communally. We’d need to see a map.”

Zuko pulls out his phone. “We have a few candidates in mind,” he says, showing her his screen. The familiar jagged coastline of home sprawls out before her for a few seconds until he taps to zoom into the northwest corner. Tiny islands dot the ocean like seeds. “We can’t find names for them, but I can point them out.”

“The issue would be with the communally owned islands,” says Bato. “It’s going to be tough to convince a group of grumpy elders to part with their land, even if they never step foot on it.”

“We have the money,” says Zuko, furrowing his brow. 

“It’s not always a matter of cash,” Katara replies. “There’s often personal, subjective value.”

“To islands they’ve never even seen?”

“They’re ancient claims, usually dating back to before our tribe unified,” she says, feeling her hackles already start to rise. “The communal ownership structures usually reflect pre-unification tribal structures.”

“It’s been centuries since unification, do you really think—”

“Maybe this is something these two can figure out on their own,” interrupts the ambassador. He shoots a stern look at Zuko. “I expect it’s going to require some continued collaboration.”

“I agree,” says Bato, who’s looking more amused than anything else. “Katara, maybe your brother can help with on the ground research.”

Katara, feeling distinctly trapped, just nods.

After a brief, awkward silence, Zuko makes to stand. “We’ve got that meeting with Omashu in fifteen minutes,” he says.

“Right. Well, thank you for your help,” says the ambassador, inclining his head as he rises as well.

“Anytime,” says Bato. Katara manages a smile, hands wrapping around her coffee cup as they take their leave. Zuko shoots her one last golden-eyed look over his shoulder before the two men exit the canteen.

“Katara,” says Bato, still amused.

“Yes?”

“Remember Zuko’s still a member of the royal household.”

She looks up, startled. “So?”

“So, there’s a baseline level of respect he might expect.”

“I’m being respectful!”

“I’ve heard otherwise,” he says. She scowls. “I’m not saying bend to his every whim. I’m just saying, things might be more difficult for you if you insist on fighting him for the sake of it.”

“I’m not—Bato, you can’t seriously think I’m just being spiteful! Sometimes even the nephews of Fire Lords say stupid things that need to be corrected.”

“Probably more than sometimes,” he acknowledges, grinning. “But our duty isn’t to fix the Fire Nation’s ambassadorial style. Our duty is to our own country. And if working peacefully with Zuko helps to fulfill that duty, that’s what we’ll do.”

Katara sighs, deflating. “Yes, Bato,” she mutters.


	4. iv.

The meeting room is stiflingly hot. Katara can feel sweat trickling down her back. The clock above the door reads 2:35pm, which probably explains it. These basement level rooms are stuffy on the best of days, with just one tiny window near the ceiling; willingly shutting herself into one during the hottest part of the day was nothing short of a death wish.

Of course, she hadn’t meant to be still stuck here. She’s made the crucial mistake of assuming a meeting with Zuko will end anything close to on time. Kenah, with her near-fanatical devotion to the organization of Katara’s calendar, is probably out for her blood.

Zuko is still hunched over one of the maps they’ve unfurled. She stares at the stylized representation of the oceans near her home and thinks longingly of icy tundras. 

“Explain this one to me again,” he says.

She scowls a little. “Which one?”

He jabs a finger toward a different map. “Why don’t you have authority over this archipelago?”

She sighs. “It’s not that we don’t have authority, it’s that a lot of Earth Kingdom citizens have lived there for generations. They have to live by our laws, of course, but their consulate is sure to get involved if you try to stick your nose in.”

“From a geographical perspective—”

“ _From a geographical perspective_ , the islands are too close together to conveniently maneuver warships through them anyway.”

He frowns. “How do you know that?”

She gestures at the corner of the map with an impatient hand. “Look at the map scale. There’s barely a few miles between each island. They’re not equipped to handle heavy traffic from large carriers.”

Zuko sighs. “Alright, fine.” He straightens up with a groan. One hand goes to rub the back of his neck. “We’ve been looking at these for too long.”

“You’re telling me,” she mutters.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket. She abruptly remembers she hasn’t checked her own in probably thirty minutes; she reaches for it with a jolt of panic. The screen greets her with at least thirty emails, plus a couple texts from Sokka and Bato. Most ominously, she missed two calls from Kenah about twenty minutes ago.

“Busy?” Zuko says, eyes back on her. 

She sighs, swiping to open the email app. Most of them are about the Omashu-Ba Sing Se debacle, as per. The Omashu ambassador has bcc’ed her on a particularly testy exchange, which, frankly, would be grimly hilarious were she in less of an irritable mood. The rest of the missives are about either the tariffs dispute or the new global health initiative she’s trying to get off the ground. There’s one rather cryptic email from Aang about the Eastern Air Temple, which would be interesting if she had more time. Instead, it feels almost alarmingly like a threat to her sanity.

She quits skimming the messages to check her texts. Sokka’s is immediately dismissed as non-work related (something about this year’s winter solstice already). Bato’s reads, _Getting along ok?_

She exits the app rather than reply. “I have to call Kenah,” she mutters, making to stand up.

“Have you missed something?” he asks.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“Katara—”

“Just—give me a second.” 

It comes out more curt than she intended. Surprise colors his face; she feels a prickle of shame spread across her cheeks. The urge to apologize wars with a healthy streak of petty annoyance.

“Let’s pick this back up tomorrow,” Zuko says into the silence. He’s wearing an unfamiliar expression now. She can’t find anger in it. Instead, it’s almost soft, which fully tips her from irritation to chagrin.

“I’m sorry,” she says, matching his tone. She fights the urge to run a hand down her face. “This week has just been…” She takes a deep breath and straightens her shoulders. “Tomorrow sounds good. I’ll ask Kenah to talk to Zhu about what times work best for us.”

“Okay.” He watches her gather her belongings and make for the exit. “Take care of yourself,” he says, just as she opens the door, and she meets his gaze one last time before leaving.


	5. v.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a longer one here. Thank you all for reading along and for your kind comments!

Katara grunts as her body slams into the padded walls of the local bending gym. “Come on, Sugar Queen,” crows Toph, the packed earth beneath them rumbling ominously. “Is that all you got?”

Katara sighs. “Yeah,” she says.

“Wait, seriously?” The rumbling stops. Toph lowers her fists. “What’s wrong with you? Usually you’re good for at least two rounds.”

“Stressed,” she mutters. 

“Is this more job crap?”

“It’s not _crap_ , it’s _diplomacy_.”

Toph scoffs. “Okay. Whatever. The point is, you’ve been spending too much time holed up at your office.”

Katara rolls her eyes. It’s early enough that the gym is still relatively crowded, Republic City’s benders getting another workout in before heading off to make dinner or grab drinks with friends. Some of them are practicing in the solo rooms, small copper bowls of their respective elements at their feet. Others are in larger sparring suites, like her and Toph, huge copper drums scattered around the varying terrains. She can feel each and every one of their heartbeats, blood pumping through arteries and veins in a maddeningly circular rush. That more than anything tips her off to how on edge she’s been feeling lately. The urge to bloodbend is closer to the surface than she normally allows.

“It’s not like I can just take time off,” she says, tight. “I’m still a junior ambassador, not to mention there’s a lot going on right now in the Earth Kingdom. Plus there’s the whole tariffs fiasco, which, don’t even get me started—”

“I wasn’t planning to,” mutters Toph. “But come on, you gotta work off some of this stress,” she adds, louder. “Hit me with one of those water whips.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Oh, as if you could!”

“Toph,” she snaps. “Come on. We’re not out on some remote island right now. You and I both have to keep a tight leash on our bending unless we want the gym to fall apart, and that takes a toll. You know that as well as I do.”

The other woman looks on the verge of replying when a grin spreads across her face instead. “Hey, Sparky,” she says, and Katara spins to see Zuko darkening their doorway.

“Occupied,” she bites.

He just raises his eyebrows. “Yeah, I can see that.”

The water in her copper drums starts to roil. Toph cackles. “Up for a quick match, Sparky?”

Probably a good idea. Katara’s got a mountain of paperwork waiting for her at home, not to mention her quickly fraying temper. “Great. I’m leaving. I’ll text you,” she adds, but Toph shakes her head.

“I meant you two. I can referee.”

“Absolutely not,” says Katara immediately.

Zuko’s brows rise higher. “I’m in,” he says.

“I’m _not_ sparring you.”

“Aw, come on, Sugar Queen. Give me a show.”

“Toph, _no_.” She takes a deep breath, a vain attempt to calm herself. “I’m tired, plus there’s a lot of stuff I still have to do tonight.”

“Screw that, you can spare some time for this.”

“I really can’t.”

Zuko lifts a hand, palm side up, to cradle a flame between his fingers. “Worried I’ll win?” he asks. 

Katara’s hold on her temper snaps so fast it’s almost audible. It’s immediately followed by a furious resolve that has her thrusting her hand toward the closest vat. Ropes of water rush to wind themselves around her arms. 

Toph whoops with glee. “First to hit the ground or yield,” she yells, quickly backing away. “Full body contact. Go!”

Zuko’s flame immediately balloons into a column of fire. Katara shoots to extinguish it, missing by less than a second. She barely has enough time to shield herself before he’s rushing her. Red-hot heat roars past her ear. 

She draws more water from the copper drums to produce water whips. They ricochet toward his torso. He evaporates them handily. She grits her teeth and tries again, faster. One makes contact with his ribs; a satisfying, punched-out noise escapes his mouth, but he doesn’t stumble.

His expression evens out to intense concentration. He sends a wide swath of fire flying toward her head, an effort to get her to fall backward. 

She can feel her own blood singing with adrenaline. Her heart races as she marshals tsunami waves. He doesn’t let her drench him, two disks of flame shielding him from impact. 

Toph’s voice is loud and unintelligible at her right. She casts about for more. The vats are running dry, but it rained yesterday. She can feel the moisture in the air, a dense, microscopic network of water droplets. 

She yanks them together and makes them crystallize.

His eyes widen in the split second before ice daggers fly at his throat. They melt instantaneously, orange flames devouring them before turning to attack her, a single column of deadly heat.

She summons all the water she can find to create a twin blast. It meets his in the middle with an earsplitting sizzle. 

Steam billows as they fight for dominance. She takes a step, water tugging her bodily forward as she struggles against the force of his flames. The effort required to control the flow is sucking energy out through her palms; her arms tremble with exertion. She grits her teeth and takes another step forward. 

Abruptly, the resistance disappears. She nearly staggers. A heartbeat later, Zuko is _soaked_. He stumbles backward once, twice, back hitting the wall.

She doesn’t hesitate to press her advantage, summoning ice as she sprints. Fire has only started to wreath his fingers when she reaches him. She douses them immediately and presses the sharp edge of her dagger into his throat. 

“Yield,” she demands. 

He has the nerve to look like he’s considering fighting back. Instead, he tilts his head up higher. “I yield,” he says, and she holds him there for another moment before lowering her hand.

It’s deathly quiet for a second. Then Toph whistles, long and low. “Holy fuck,” she says. “Well, you guys broke about a thousand rules.”

Katara blinks. Awareness of her surroundings belatedly floods her senses; she looks around to realize the sparring suite is completely trashed. Beyond the doorway, she can see other benders have congregated to watch, open-mouthed and whispering. Among them, admirably stoic, is his bodyguard. Katara suddenly realizes this is going to be reported to Suki, and consequently Sokka.

She flushes and takes a hasty step back, avoiding Zuko’s eyes. His chest is rising and falling with exertion, almost as fast as hers. 

“You were supposed to be refereeing,” she says to Toph. 

“Right, like I was going to step into the middle of that.”

Katara takes a deep breath. Her muscles burn. Sweat trickles down her forehead.

“Feel better?” Zuko says, quiet.

Her gaze snaps back up to meet his. He looks impassive. His hair is falling into his eyes, and the edges of his sleeves are singed. She fights the abrupt, horrifying urge to kiss him. “A bit,” she says instead, and his mouth quirks up.

The other benders move out of her way as she leaves, giving her a respectful berth. The locker room isn’t too crowded. She’s able to shower and get dressed quickly. She exits the building twenty minutes later to find him leaning against the exterior, blue light from his cell phone illuminating the planes of his face.

“You eaten yet?” he asks. She shakes her head. 

They’re quiet on the short walk to his apartment. The sun is just starting to set, coloring skyscraper windowpanes with brilliant orange light. Deep purple shadows leach through the sidewalks like bruises. Katara can feel his bodyguard following them from a respectful distance, eyes trained on her charge. Once they reach his building, the woman slips into a discreet black sedan idling by the curb.

“What are the chances she keeps that whole thing a secret from Suki?” Katara asks.

“Slim to none,” says Zuko. He nods to the doorman as they enter his lobby. “Why?”

“No reason,” she mumbles. He doesn’t push it. 

The elevator ride up to his apartment is silent; the rich carpeting underfoot muffles the jangling of his keys as he opens his door and lets them in.

His apartment faces away from the setting sun, meaning everything is already draped in blue shadow. Cool air hums almost silently out of his air conditioning vents. All the furniture is dark wood and glass surfaces; she’s pretty sure he didn’t pick a single item himself. 

Katara’s eyelids suddenly feel heavy. The burn of exhaustion in her muscles has settled into a low throb. “I have some leftovers,” says Zuko, and she nods before slipping off her shoes and heading to his couch.

The leather is cool beneath her thighs. It feels like she blinks once before finding herself horizontal, cheek pressed against a scratchy decorative pillow. 

It’s noticeably darker now. He’s turned on the lamp by the television; it emits a buttery yellow light. He’s got her feet in his lap as he scrolls through his phone again. A now-cold bowl of soggy noodles sits on the table before them.

“You’re up,” says Zuko, putting down his phone. He touches his fingers to her ankle, fleeting. “Hungry?”

She shakes her head. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

“Midnight!” She makes to sit up. 

“Whoa, you okay?”

“No, I still have a million things to do before the morning.” Panic and exhaustion rise within her chest like competing tidal waves. “I should _not_ have fallen asleep, I don’t know why I just passed out like that.”

“The sparring session took more out of you than you expected.”

She glares at him, expecting to see pride, even smugness. She’s instead met with what looks like concern. “What?” she snaps.

“I think you should take the night off,” he says.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I mean it. You’re not going to be efficient right now anyway, not with how tired you are.” He hesitates before cupping her shin with his palm. “You’ll feel better if you sleep and start fresh tomorrow.”

She drags a hand down her face. Had she been drooling? It feels like his stupid pillow left indentations on her cheek. “I’d have to get up at 5am to wade through everything before our 8am with the general council.”

“I’ll wake you up.”

She stares at him. “You want me to stay here?”

He blinks, then looks away. Is there a flush creeping up his neck or is she hallucinating? “You don’t have to, obviously,” he mutters.

She runs a hand through her hair to push it away from her face. Even if she was determined to get her work done tonight, she’d have to get back to her apartment first. The cab ride alone would be nearly thirty minutes. Then she’d have to set up her laptop to hook up to the VPN, which is temperamental on a good day. It would, logistically, be much easier to work out of her actual office. Not to mention how much closer his apartment is to their building. 

There’s a little flutter of something—nerves?—building in her stomach. It feels like his palm is unnaturally warm against her leg. She swallows. “I’d need something to sleep in. And a toothbrush.”

An indecipherable expression flashes across his face before he looks up at her. “I can do that,” he replies.

“Okay,” she says. 

It’s very quiet. Even his air conditioning has clicked off. She can’t take her eyes off him. 

“Okay,” he repeats, before getting up.

She waits until he’s out of sight before scrounging up her phone. No emails, thank Tui and La. _11:57pm_ blinks up at her, nearly accusatory. 

Her eyes feel dry and gritty. There’s a slight crick in her neck. As if sensing weakness, bone-deep exhaustion swamps her at the thought of opening any of her briefs. She bites her lip, then sets her alarm for 5am and puts her phone back in her pocket.

“Here,” he says, coming back into the living room. He’s got a bundle of fabric and a new toothbrush in his hands. “Toothpaste is in the bathroom. You, uh… you know where that is.”

She takes her time brushing her teeth and washing her face. He’s got a tiny jar of moisturizer, small mercies. She swipes some on without asking. The clothes turn out to be what looks like one of his t-shirts and an unfamiliar pair of women’s sweatpants. _Interesting,_ she thinks, before she can help herself.

His bedroom, at least, is familiar. Everything is in muted shades of grey and black. Moonlight filters weakly through the windows. His bed exerts some sort of irresistible pull on her body until she’s horizontal beneath the fluffy duvet. 

He appears in the doorway right before she’s about to turn off the light. “Do you… need anything?”

“No, thanks.” The mattress is so soft. She feels nearly drunk with sleepiness. 

“Okay. Good night.”

She frowns. “Wait, are you sleeping now?”

“Yeah.”

“Where?”

A pause. “The couch.”

“Seriously?”

“I don’t think the floor would be comfortable.”

She huffs. “I don’t want to kick you out of your own bed.”

“You’re a guest, you’re not sleeping on the couch.”

She hesitates for only a second before pulling back the blanket. “Come on.”

“Katara…”

“Zuko, come on. We’ve slept together. I can’t imagine _actually_ sleeping together is going to be any worse.”

There’s another, longer pause this time. Just when embarrassment is about to break through her exhaustion, the hallway light turns off, plunging the room into near darkness. Then the mattress dips under her.

“Are you sure?” he says, and the closeness of his voice threatens to send a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she whispers back. 

There will be time to regret this in the morning. For now, she closes her eyes and lets sleep claim her.


	6. vi.

Katara’s drafting a quick memo when she hears the first pop. It’s loud outside her windows, almost like a car backfiring. She barely pays it any mind. Republic City is densely packed and eternally congested; it takes a pretty significant traffic pile-up to draw her attention.

As if determined to draw her curiosity, the loud pop is followed instantly by several more. They sound successively louder, as if the car is drawing closer to the building.

The fourth or fifth pop is accompanied by a low roaring sound. It, too, crescendoes in volume until it sounds curiously like screaming. She looks up from her computer with a frown.

Her door bursts open. “Away from the windows, ma’am,” says a stiff-faced man in the doorway. He’s wearing the familiar, distinctive suit of the building security staff. One hand is resting on his firearm. 

He looks familiar. She thinks he’s permanently assigned to her stretch of hallway. The badge on his chest reads _Yamamoto_.

“What?” she asks stupidly.

“Away from the windows,” he orders, entering the room to grab her elbow. He yanks her away from her desk and to the corner between her two bookshelves. “On the floor, please.”

She slides into a crouch. The screaming—because that is what the sound is—sounds like it’s getting even closer. A few more pops echo, louder still. She realizes abruptly that she’s hearing gunshots.

“What’s going on?” she demands.

Yamamoto has positioned himself between her and the two doors leading out from her office. She can hear indistinguishable dialogue crackling through his earpiece. “Does that door lead to the senior ambassador’s office?” he asks.

“Yes, but he’s in a meeting upstairs.” Her heart is hammering. Her palms feel damp. “Is it outside?”

“I believe so, ma’am.” 

“Is the building in lockdown?”

“Partially, yes. We may need to get you to a more secure location.”

More dialogue in his earpiece. Katara stays quiet to let him listen. Sharp, twitchy anxiety threatens to overthrow her stomach; she forces it back down.

Silence again. Into it, she says, “Was there anyone at the secretaries’ desks?”

“No.”

Bato’s secretary probably followed him to his meeting. She doesn’t know where Kenah is. She’s about to ask whether she’s allowed to text people when Yamamoto’s earpiece crackles again.

The set of his shoulders ease slightly as he listens. “They’ve caught him,” he reports.

It’s been less than five minutes. She spares a moment to thank Tui and La for world-class security personnel. “Is anyone injured?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I’m a waterbender, I can offer medical assistance.”

He frowns. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to take you down there.”

“If they’ve caught him—”

“We’re still looking to see if he has accomplices in the area,” he interrupts. “It would be a violation of protocol to allow you to move.”

Her cell phone rings. She pulls it out of her pocket to see Suki’s name flash across the screen. She accepts the call and is immediately met with chaos.

“Katara!” says Suki, half-shouting over the bedlam. “Katara, are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” she says. “Are you? Where are you?”

“I’m outside, it was on the steps.” Sirens have started to wail; Katara can hear them much louder and a half-second delayed through the phone. “Damn, can you—Katara, find security and have them escort you to the main atrium. I’ve got Zuko here—”

Panic sends a spike through her stomach. “What? What’s going on?”

“He’ll be fine, we just need—Rhee, give me your belt—it’s his leg. You’ll be faster than paramedics, the traffic—can you get here?”

“Give me five minutes,” she says, and Suki hangs up. “I have to get to the atrium,” she adds to Yamamoto.

“I heard,” he replies. He hesitates for less than a second before withdrawing his firearm. “We’ll take the emergency stairwell.”

The trip is fast, only three flights of stairs, but she feels keenly every second passing. There’s a hot, panicky feeling settling into her blood, sharp enough that her senses feel suddenly overstimulated. The dim fluorescent lighting throws the rough concrete walls into sharp relief. The chill creeps across her exposed arms. It’s a relief when Yamamoto throws open the door and they exit into the atrium, late afternoon sunlight burnishing the silver fixtures and light blonde wood. 

She sees them instantly, a tight knot of people huddled on the floor by the far wall, away from the main entrance and windows. She recognizes Zuko’s aide, as well as the two bodyguards who are standing to block access from all angles. “Suki,” she shouts, breaking into a run, and the other woman looks up from her spot on the floor with a furrowed expression of intense concentration.

“Let her through,” she orders, and the two women flanking her part to reveal a bloody body under Suki’s palms. Katara throws herself onto her knees immediately, already reaching out to assess the damage. 

“I need water,” she says, and Suki makes a motion to one of her women with one hand. Her other hand is pulling tight a black belt around Zuko’s thigh, right above the wound.

He’s still conscious. His face is screwed up with pain; one hand goes to cover hers as she reaches for the injury. “It’s fine,” he says, sounding more irritated than anything else.

“Hold still,” she snaps. 

“It grazed him, nothing’s embedded,” Suki says. Her acolyte returns from the bathroom with a mountain of dripping paper towels. Katara nods her thanks and wrings the liquid from them all with a twist of her hand. The water disk starts to glow as she wraps it around his wound. 

“What happened?” she asks.

“I think he was aiming for my cousin,” replies Zuko. 

“Your highness—” starts his aide.

“She’ll find out in a couple hours from the news anyway,” he says. He winces as Katara gingerly takes hold of the blood around the injury to probe for any further damage. There is none; she has to fight down a dizzying, distracting wave of relief. “Suki, is Lu Ten—”

“Safe,” she replies shortly. Some tension leaves his frame at that. 

The bending is doing its work. Katara can feel the eddies of blood start to slow, then stop, then reverse back into Zuko’s body. His flesh begins to knit itself back together. She pulls the disk thin over the wound to get a better look at it, slightly distorted by the water. It’s smaller than she’d feared. 

“You got lucky,” she says, and his gaze snaps to hers at the almost-hidden catch in her voice. She clears her throat. “It really did just clip your thigh. Might not even leave a scar.”

“Got enough of those, anyway,” he says.

“Suki, ease up on the tourniquet slowly.” Katara lets the water flow more thickly over the wound again as Suki reintroduces blood flow to the area. 

The hardest part is always reconnecting the nerves. It takes all of her concentration to recreate the delicate webbing. Zuko remains still for all of it, tension continuing to slowly leave his body as she works to remove the pain.

Taut minutes slide by. Eventually, Katara allows the water to coalesce into a shining sphere, which she lifts and places back onto the parched paper towels. They stain slightly pink as they rehydrate. She shoves aside a spark of irritation at the sight: she clearly needs to brush up on manipulating two streams of liquid without cross-contaminating.

“You should get a licensed waterbending healer to look at it,” she says. “And a doctor, for good measure.”

“Thank you,” Zuko replies. His gaze snags on hers. She’s suddenly aware of the afternoon sun again, the way it streams honey golden through the wide atrium windows and gilds his amber eyes. He presses a hand against hers, fleeting. “Seriously, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” she manages.

Later that night, Katara lingers in the doorway of Zuko’s hospital room. 

It’s been a busy six or so hours. Almost an hour after he had been taken away by ambulance, security had finally announced the building could exit lockdown. She’d returned to her office to find Bato waiting for her, wearing a track into her carpet as he paced. He’d jumped on her immediately, of course, checking for injuries despite her protests. Then her phone had started ringing with calls from both Sokka and their dad. It had taken a while to reassure both of them of her and Bato’s safety, after which she’d attempted to tackle her workload again. 

But the recurring image of Zuko’s blood on her hands had interrupted her more than once, and eventually, she’d given up. Instead of going home, she’d found herself walking to the hospital.

Now, it’s been nearly thirty minutes since she entered the building. She still hasn’t mustered up the nerve to enter his room. The moonlight’s bright enough that she can tell he’s sleeping.

He looks fine. Good, even. Logically, she knows his injury hadn’t been life threatening, and that there’s really no need for him to even be in the hospital. She knows it’s mostly a technicality: she’s not a licensed healer, and her work needs to be checked over by a professional, just in case. But what she _knows_ feels paltry compared to what she _remembers_ : the sight of him sprawled out on the floor, the feeling of his injured muscle twitching against her fingers, the sound of his rapid, jagged breaths.

A nurse appears at her side, startling her. The man flashes her a quick smile. “Coming?” he asks, and she bites her lip before following him in.

“Is he… fine?”

“He’s great.” He gives her an assessing look. “You healed him on site?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you did a great job. The doctor didn’t find any abnormalities or signs of defective healing. We’re just keeping him overnight for observation.”

She lets out a breath. “Okay. Okay, good.”

The nurse gives her another smile. “Don’t worry, your boyfriend will be fine.” Before she can respond to this—what would she even say?—he continues, “Unfortunately visiting hours are just about to end. I can give you ten minutes to say goodbye?”

“I—uh, okay.” Katara scrubs a hand over her face. “Yeah, ten minutes would be great. Thank you.”

He jots a couple things down on his clipboard before leaving. Katara, after another second of hesitation, sinks gingerly into the seat by the bed.

Zuko sleeping is still a pretty unfamiliar sight to her. The one time they’d slept in the same bed together, just a few weeks ago, she’d woken up to find him curled around her, his chest warm against her back, his arm slung around her waist. She’d slipped out silently and almost immediately, unwilling to face the inevitable awkwardness that would’ve arisen if she’d stayed. But here, with the memory of him bleeding out under her still fresh, she lets herself note how his features have changed: the softness of his expression, the way his jaw’s gone slack. His hair has fallen into his eyes; she reaches to push it away before she realizes what she’s doing.

He doesn’t wake, thankfully. His breathing is deep and easy. She lets her hand linger for another moment and feels gratefulness swell fiercely in her chest. How easy it would’ve been for the bullet to hit him somewhere she couldn’t have fixed. A few footsteps slower or faster, a different angle as he followed his cousin into the building—the thought nearly makes her fingers tremble against his cheek.

It creeps across her mind slowly then, accompanied by a sort of crushing feeling as it sinks in. _Love?_ she thinks, incredulous, bewildered. _It can’t be._

The moon streaks silver across his face. He’s beautiful enough it hurts. 

She withdraws her hand and hurries out.


End file.
